


Harry Potter and the Phantom of the Opera

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Eileen Prince - Freeform, Harry is Christine, Harry's adoptive father is the Phantom, M/M, Muggle world, Nerwicks, Phantom of the Opera AU, Sane Tom Riddle, Watching the musical is not necessary, Wizards exist but are not the focus, inventor harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An Opera House in Paris. An innocent impressionable youth. An obsessed Opera Ghost. A childhood sweetheart. Sound familiar? How about when adding Harry Potter, a deadbeat dad, and Tom Riddle? That should shake things up sufficiently.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter or Phantom of the Opera, though I'm sure you already know that.

It was the year Harry turned 18 that he decided to work in theatre. Granted, he had absolutely no talent in regards to singing, dancing or managing a performance, but he was a solid violinist, and was a genius with special effects and staging.

It was a muggle opera house (did wizards even have operas?) and he was fine with that. He would be out of place in the Wizarding World anyway. Hogwarts ignored him so he never recieved a letter. He never cared to protest against that; in fact, he wanted no part in their little school. Of course, this meant everything he knew about magic came from his step-parents and Tom. He didn't think anything more than basics were necessary when, as mentioned above, he planned on fully integrating with the muggles.

He was about six months into the job, already bored with all the similar sounding music and patronizing actors, when he heard him. He brushed it off as a coincidence the first two times, but it was past reasoning now. Either he was going crazy or his some form of his father was calling out to him.

John was a good father up until he left. Even then, Harry could understand some way or another why he did it. He convinced himself he had moved on, didn't care anymore, tried to ignore the implications of him working in an Opera House of all things, but hearing his voice was a hit to the head. Like trying to rebuild a home in his mind that had been destroyed long ago brick by brick only to have it collapse at the utterance of a single word.

"Harry"

The voice was ghostly and high, but indisputably masculine.

"Father?" He wandered the hallways searching for the owner of the familiar, altered tone. Memories of hot afternoons in a small island crushed him like a stampede. Emotions he had been suppressing as skillfully as one could without the use of occlumency resurfaced.

"Harry"

"This can't be real." Harry thought, "It has to be a joke set up by Nellwyn Granger or something! The lead singer does seem to have it out for me, she had since I proposed replacing singers with humanoid machines that could hit every note with ease instead of risking the actors making mistakes and- You know, maybe her not liking me was a little justified. But still, I didn't think she'd do something so cruel, how would she even know what my dad sounded like?"

He reached an abandoned dressing room. It was fairly small, had a vanity with a small mirror, some chairs and dusty props here and there. It was dimly lit and altogether unimpressive. Still, there were candles, and that meant someone was here recently.

"Father, where are you?"

"My son, I am everywhere. I am in the walls, I am underground, I am the very words you speak, forever observing you. I am your Angel of Music"

Harry recalled the stories his father told him when he was teaching him how to play the violin. About an angel who wrote music than would seduce every listener. The kind that drove men to madness and inspired genius. The music that directly opposed the light-hearted garbage Harry heard every day in the Opera House.

The Music of the Night

Henceforth, father and son were reunited. Harry worshiped his father, agreed with all his creative choices and together they made music. Music that was unlike anything heard ever before. It was intimate music, the kind neither had any wish to share with the world. On some days, Harry would even work on his machines, ask his Angel of Music for advice on how to improve them.

Such were their lives for months, both quite content. However, night must end and bring forth a new day for better or worse. In this case, the day brought forth Tom Marvolo Riddle.


	2. Think of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter or Phantom of the Opera. I'm flattered that this is something that I have to clear up, though. Like my writing could be mistaken for that of J.K. Rowling or Andrew Lloyd Webber.

'I don't care what you do to capture this caca boudin, if this doesn't stop happening you can depend on my resignation, messieurs! For 10 years now this thing whatever you want to call him, Opera Ghost, Phantom, bully, he has been terrorizing us and we have been taking it, well no more!'

The person causing your ear to bleed with her shrieking, operatic voice is Nellwyn Granger, the Prima Donna for 10 seasons now, and the source of most of our hero's troubles. Let it not be said that she didn't deserve her role in the Opera House. She was an excellent soprano and very serious about her art form. She just had the bad habit of being a diva.

'Please signora, be reasonable, no one else is complaining and you should know better than anyone else the circumstances behind our little friend in the shadows.'

The managers was a well-meaning person. He wanted the best for their Prima Donna as she brought most of the audience in, but he failed to realize the repercussions of spoiling her so. He respected their crew, and mostly left them to their own devices. He agreed to pay the Phantom his monthly salary as compensation for what he called 'generous criticism' and 'lightening up the mood'.

In short, he was a pushover who wanted as little conflict as possible and avoided confrontation.

'Oh, yes, our little friends horrible circumstances, forgive me for not thinking of him. After all, he must tire from ruining all our rehearsals, how inconsiderate of me. In fact, since he doesn't seem to appreciate my work here, I think it would be in our best interest to take the hint. I will be sitting our next performance out. Let's see how you manage.'

And with that, she left the stage, leaving the cast to their own devices.

'What will we do now?'

'We just lost our star!'

'Is there an understudy'

'The production is new, do you think we have an understudy?'

Amidst all the confusion, a chorus dancer was wearing a big smile on her face. She went by the name Eileen Prince, her dark hair was flowing, just like all the other dancers, her costume was red and green, like all the other dancers, and her figure was lean, just like all the other dancers, yet something about her was decidedly different. Perhaps it was her air, her way of walking, or maybe the muggles could, to some degree sense her magic, whatever it was, they knew to be intimidated and perhaps the only one with whom she talked freely was Harry Potter, the subject of her thoughts.

'I believe I have a solution, sir.' She said. 'Harry Potter has been working on a machine that could do all the singing in Ms. Nellwyn's place, and I have full confidence in his abilities.'

'The boy who does our backgrounds and lights?' asked the manager, 'Well where is he?

By now, the manager was ready to believe in anything that could fix this mess.

'Um, I-I'm right here, sir' called a voice write beside the curtain. 'And Eileen is, I'm afraid, too kind, there are many kinks I have yet to fix, the machine can't hit many low notes and-'

'Ms. Granger's part did not require many low notes. I'm sure it'll be fine, show me, lad, I'd like to see it' said the manager.

Harry went backstage to his room. It was filled with lights, mechanical pieces, tools, costumes and blueprints. Amidst the chaos was a lifelike metallic structure. It looked like beautiful women, with long, curled brown hair and an olive complexion. He retrieved a remote from a cardboard box on his desk and fiddled with it randomly; at least, it looked random.

Soon enough, the woman was walking. Her walk flowed well-enough. You wouldn't notice anything robotic if you weren't searching. Harry was evidently nervous and cursed Eileen silently as they reached the stage.

Gasps were heard, the manager was clearly surprised that this wasn't a joke and his eyeglass fell comedically from his face.

'Well,' he said 'Let's see if it works'

Harry gulped visibly, but complied as the music started. At first, her voice was as shaky as Harry's hands. The manager had his face buried in his hands and poor Harry looked like a 3rd grader who forgot to bring his things to school. Eileen, however, was the epitome of calm and raised an eyebrow at Harry.

This seemed to bring him back to his senses and soon enough, one might have argued the machines superiority when compared to Nellwyn Granger. It certainly complained less.

The next night had the whole cast nervous. They only decided to go through with the performance after numerous rehearsals. The advantages of having the same Prima Donna for 10 seasons were now clearly visible.

Everyone had to get use to a new voice, choreography had to be changed and costumes remade. Harry had to familiarize himself with all the cues and lines. All in all, it was a miracle they made it through, now they just had to perform and never had these theatre lover ever wanted a night to pass faster.

Imagine their surprise when the night when smoothly. All the practicing made it natural and the crowd, it seemed, were also quite immersed. Especially a Mr. Tom Riddle, a new patron of the theatre, though he was not captivated by the show, rather, the person behind the new Prima Donna.

When the cast immerged to take their bows and credits were given to the inventor of such a new way of casting, none were unsurprised as Riddle, and none clapped louder.

'This performance wouldn't have been possible' said the manager 'without Mr. Potter here. I dare say, I've always considered him a son of mine and knew he would go on to do great things.'

Harry smiled awkwardly at this reception, but was too polite to counter it. Soon enough the applause ended. Kisses were exchanged, roses given, compliments passed and after about 30 minutes of this the excitement died down.

Harry was packing away the new star and cleaning the dressing room by himself when there was a knock on his door.


	3. Little Lotte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I do not own Harry Potter or Phantom of the Opera.

'Well, Harry, I didn't think it was possible, but you did it,' drawled a voice behind him. 'You've replaced the Prima Donna, the unchallenged leader of this old theatre without even being a woman. Congratulations.'

The man has been referenced many a time in this story, and you can probably guess who it was: Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was tall, lean and had a very handsome walk. His hair was dark and kept neatly in place, a stark contrast to the bird nest on Harry's head, and his blue eyes had a distinct red gleam if you looked in the right times. 

'Tom! What-what are you doing here? Is that really you? why are you-' Harry abruptly stopped his ramblings. His eyes narrowed. 'I thought you hated all things muggle, isn't that what you told me? How hypocritical of you to be here.'

'Harry, please, that was a year ago. Don't tell me you're still going on about that, holding grudges is very unbecoming'

Our protagonist was now clearly holding himself back. His train of thought was everywhere between 'I'd like to punch that bastard's lying little face' and 'He still cares after all that time…'

In the end he settled with a civil 'What are you doing here, Riddle?'

'Oh, so it's Riddle now? That's some way to treat a friend, Harry, especially after such a long absence. I almost get the feeling I'm unwanted here, but that can't be right, after all, years of friendship can't be erased after a little fight. Or am I wrong in assuming so?'

Harry looked very ridiculous at this point. His suit was disheveled by now, his hair was all over the place and resembled the hair of a cat after being frightened by one cucumber too many. His face flushed and his body shook with anger and his jaw was clenched.

'Little? Seriously? I'd hate to see what you'd consider a big fight, after all, a man almost died because of your bad temper. But then, you do seem inclined to forgetting such trivial things.' 

Harry and Tom don't seem to be keen on giving the details of their lover's spat, so I shall do my best in doing their history justice:

When Harry was nine, bordering 10, he was given to Wool's orphanage, the very place Tom was residing. The reason for Harry's transference to such a grim fate shall not be disclosed presently as that is a whole story by itself. Initially, both boys were lonely and alienated from the other orphans. Tom for his aloof and superior air and Harry for his sad disposition. After a month of ignoring everyone around him though, Harry happened to overhear Billy Stubbs, the resident bully, tell Ms. Cole that Tom was picking on Amy the previous afternoon. Harry knew this wasn't true because during that time, he and Tom were avoiding each other in the library while the rest of the kids were out playing. When he tried to reason with Ms. Cole she gave them both a timeout and they were locked in her office for the rest of the day. Both immerged from that room with a new friend.  
When Albus Dumbledore came to the orphanage to give to his Hogwarts letter Tom didn't question the overlook of Harry as Tom was a year older. Harry explained that he wouldn't be receiving his Hogwarts letter because he was a Nerwick, and Nerwicks weren't permitted in Hogwarts. At first Tom was angry, after all, Harry was the best person he knew and as long as he knew magic, what did it matter what his race was? Soon enough, though, this argument lost it validity when Muggleborns and Halfbloods were pointed out. Tom would not repent his views, so he gave in. As long as Tom taught Harry what magic he could over the holidays, it was fine, there was no rule against Nerwicks joining the Wizarding World, so it would all work out.

However, it was obvious Harry didn't agree. Once Tom graduated seventh year and told Harry of his plans he was met with refusal. Harry would not even entertain the idea of living among wizards. This sparked the greatest fight they ever had and ended with Harry leaving and traveling to Paris and Tom going on to pursuit the dark arts and working in Borgin and Burkes. 

Thus ended their contact up until now. 

'Harry, do you really think that I'd be here of all places if I didn't mind mixing in with the muggles for your sake? I've had time to rethink our argument and have come to realize I care more about you than some petty disagreements.'

'Really?' Harry said disbelievingly, 'you'd do that for me?' His pointy ears wiggled and he gave Tom a bone-crushing hug that Tom would forever deny returning.  
'God, Harry, I missed you!' They stayed in each other's embrace. Finally, Tom asked 'So, how did you build that remarkable specimen? I've never known a machine to be able to do that.'

This caused a long conversation on what had been going on in their lives. While Harry did not like Tom's profession, he acknowledged that Tom felt the same way about Harry, so this conversation was steadily avoided.

Once it was midnight, Tom had to make like Cinderella and leave. Harry was also getting back home when he remembered he left his remote in the dressing room. You see, he had to make some adjustments and recharge it, something he planned to do before he got caught up with Tom.

As he made his way towards his destination he heard shuffling noises. Then there was music, beckoning him to an abandoned hallway. There were no candles or lights. His only source of illumination was the moon, shining down in spite of, our perhaps because of the darkness. The music was faint, he could barely make out a melody, yet each measure had the distinct style of his father.

He moved closer and closer when he saw a small writing desk, and on top of it was a locket. No it wasn't just a locket, it was her locket, his mother's locket. 'Is this..for me?'  
He was met with no answer, just the music that seemed to be radiating out of the small trinket. After an agonizingly long period of internal debate, his hand reached forward to take the forbidden fruit just as he held it in his hand, he was transported to what looked like the inside of the walls. He wasn't given enough time to be confused when a firm, pale hand reached for his shoulder.


	4. A Brief History of Nerwicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, I referenced these creatures, but you were given no explanation as to what they were. As such I have gone through great lengths to make a small reference chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter or Phantom of the Opera.

Nerwicks are a fictional species present in this story. Popular Nerwicks in the Harry Potter series include:

Harry Potter  
Luna Lovegood  
Rita Skeeter  
Seamus Finnegan  
Padma Patil

People with all the qualities of Nerwicks are also called Wickens, though there are many other, more derogative terms.

Nerwicks can be easily mistaken for humans but there are a few key differences, the most obvious being their ears. Most Elven myths are loosely derived from Nerwicks as their ears are as pointy as those of Santa's little workers. They are also rather scrawny, though there are exceptions, they have big eyes and their blood is blue.

Old folk tales say this is because Nerwicks spend so much time near the sea and became pirates, stealing away human women and taking the captain's treasure. Consequently, the sea god cursed them with blue blood, presumably to warn the innocent of their cold-heartedness. However, these tales hold no weight today and are tossed aside as fiction.   
I do believe that covers most Physical differences. 

Like humans, some Nerwicks are magical and some aren't, but unlike humans, most of them are told of the existence of magic. There are of course, exceptions, like if a Nerwick is human born and the humans decide to keep them, they will probably not be told of magic. Speaking of human born, yes, Nerwicks can be produced by two humans. It is rare, but it does happen and as far as modern science goes, there is no explanation.

Historically, Nerwicks borne from to humans are kept secret and killed. Such was the regular practice until 1950, when a law was passed to prevent it and ensure the children either stayed with the parents or sent to live with willing Nerwicks. 

The Nerwicks are also very deeply religious people. They believe in a singular God, but many angels. These angels are limitless, and there is an angel for everything from the sun and shoes to more abstract things like music and greed. Names of these angels are disputed among the Nerwicks and so are usually referred to as Angel of (insert thing the angel is associated with). Everyone, however, agrees that there is a God ruling over them all. 

There are no atheist Nerwicks, just like there aren't any Muslim Jews. It's a contradictory thing, as being Nerwick and believing in the Nerwick religion come in one package. You can't have one without the other.

The most widely known thing about Nerwicks, though, is not their appearance, their religion or their name, it is the bigotry that surrounds them. They are just about the only thing Wizards and Muggles agree on, whether they know it or not. Throughout history, Nerwicks have been at everlasting war with humans, magic and muggle alike. They have been oppressed and they have revolted time and time again. In the brief moments of peace, they are not given the same rights and aren't permitted in the same schools as humans.  
They have remained vigilant still, and let it not be said that humans are careless by nature as many have sympathized with their plight and done their best to aid these poor creatures. In fact, as of 1950, a decree was passed in the Ministry of Magic that allowed magical Nerwicks to receive their magical education in Hogwarts instead of the standard apprenticeship they usual receive and since then, tensions have lightened dramatically.

You might have noticed that 1950 was a very special year for the Nerwicks, and indeed, you are correct in assuming so. However that is a story for another time, yet you can be certain it includes a certain raven-haired green eyed Wicken.


	5. Phantom of the Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter or Phantom of the Opera.

'That's not how I taught you to hold the bow, Harry.' His father chastised. 'And the music says Legato. Does that sound like legato to you?'

'Well maybe if you gave me a break I'd be able to concentrate more.'

'A break?' He said indignantly, 'Will it be longer or shorter than the one I gave you 10 minutes ago, little man?'

The nine year old huffed, commented about the unfairness of life, and carried on bowing. His father smiled fondly before going back to unimpressed teacher mode.

'What did I say about fingering?' He'd say, then it was 'You have five fingers for a reason, use your pinky!' and other comments on Harry's abominable technique.

Finally after an hour of this, Harry tried less and less until finally he set the instruments down and faced his father, frustration evident on his face. 'This is never going to work! I've been trying so hard this past year and I'm not improving! I give up, I'll never be as good as you.

Harry wished the expression on his father's face was anger, or even sadness, but not this. He was calm, like he hadn't a care in the world. Suddenly Harry felt very silly, he put his head down, too ashamed to meet his father's gaze.

'Harry, do you think I got this good at violin by giving up the first day? Son, anything worth achieving is going to take a lifetime of work, it's the simple truth of life. If you don't like violin, you don't have to do violin, it's up to you, because nothing is worse than spending a lifetime doing something you don't enjoy. You're old enough to make your own decisions now. Do you want to continue, or would you like to pursue something else?'

It's a big moment in a child's life when their told they can make their own decision. They finally have a degree of control in their life. Harry hesitantly replied to his father, 'I-no, I don't enjoy violin, so, is it alright if I became the blacksmith's apprentice instead?'

His father's eyes widened, then shock turned to mirth and stood there, laughing as Harry stared at him, waiting for an answer.

'Of course you can, son. Just don't tell your mother, she has it in her head that you're going to be doing performances for the queen. I swear, it's the only reason she lets me see you anymore.'  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Harry sensed his father's presence before he felt the large hand grip his shoulder. He turned to face the King of this Underworld. As usual, a third of his powdered face was covered by a mask. He longed to reach for the mask and pull it off, ending the mystery that showered his idol.

Alas, he had a stubborn teacher no, no matter how blunt Harry would be in his questioning, refused to give him any information regarding what happened after he disappeared.  
Disappeared. It was rather fitting that it should be his word choice rather than the more accurate 'left'. But then, even indicating that his father ever made a mistake would be admitting humanity to someone who couldn't be anything less than an angel, and Harry wasn't ready to let go of his father's perfect image yet.

'Father. You don't usually meet me during such late hours, much less summon me.' Harry said, 'That's what this is, right? Some kind of summoning.'

Harry, without the aid of glasses, was blind as a bat. They, though, couldn't give him the night vision his father seemed to possess. So, like always, Harry was left dependent on his father's clemency. He wasn't afraid, though; this was the man who raised him and he was always told his sentimentality would be his downfall.

His father's reply came after a short pause. 'It was merely some hypnotism I've been dabbling in. There really is not much to do down here when my very own son prefers to spend his time flirting with wizards to keeping his own father company.'

Perhaps Harry should have known that when a seemingly harmless complaint aroused in Harry a great fear on his friend's behalf, something was wrong in their relationship.  
'He was a friend from the orphanage.' Harry said quickly. He forgot how sensitive his father was regarding anything in Harry's life that the Phantom wasn't a part of. 'It's been some time since I've last seen him and we didn't part on the best terms. Forgive me if I had forgotten a prior engagement.' 

But Harry wouldn't have forgotten a meeting, they just didn't have one scheduled. He dared not voice his thoughts, though, not when his father was already so agitated.  
'The past is in the past, my son.' Harry didn't know if he was referring to Harry's negligence or Tom Riddle. 'Now, I think a congratulations is in order, you were wonderful out there. I am very proud of you.' All this was said in the same monotone voice that implied detachment, but as Harry was used to it by now, it did nothing to prevent the feeling of pride. 'It is time for you to visit my lair.'

'Thank you fo-wait, what?! But… are you sure? That's…right now?' Harry didn't receive any verbal answer. The familiar, large hand simple grabbed his wrist and pulled him along.  
Down they went, deeper and deeper inside the Phantom's mind. He felt damp, like he was in the mouth of a basilisk. After about 7 minutes, his father lit a candle and illuminated the area. Harry saw that the water he felt earlier was dripping from the ceiling of what appeared to be a cave.

Then his father stopped. Harry was about to ask what was wrong, when his father untangled a knot from a wooden pole. Confusion only lasted seconds. His father's intent was made clear when he saw a small boat at the side of the river.

'We're riding that?'

His father, once again, didn't deem Harry's question worth a reply and before he knew it, he was riding a boat to God knows where. His father insisted on rowing, so Harry was left to admire the scenery, and what scenery it was. Darkness was dancing with light as candles dominated both the river and what he could see of the surface. Warm blues mixed with blacks and purples. The centerpiece was an ornate organ, with its stand and flat surface overflowing with ink, parchment and quills. The whole place seemed to sing songs of loss, longing and intense sadness.

Harry was standing now, examining the intimidating instrument. Quiet as a cat his father stood behind him.

'I'll take it from your wide eyes and open jaw that you like it.'


End file.
